The Legion of Losers
by Steve Gershwin
Summary: The story of Marvel's ne'er-do-wells, the Legion of Losers, straight out of The Spectacular Spider-Man.
1. Stupid Is as Stupid Does

**The Spot—inept body teleporter! The Kangaroo—inventive jerk!  
The Gibbon—overweight bumbler! The Grizzly—uneducated halfwit!  
Together, they form the least qualified, most mismatched team of never-weres!  
They are...**

**The Legion of Losers!**

**Issue #1: Stupid Is as Stupid Does**

_Your typical author's note: I wrote this a few years ago for a fanfiction group site (Alternate Marvel) and got a couple issues in before I lost free time and couldn't continue the project. I planned it to be a four-issue series, so this is half finished. If I get enough feedback saying I should, maybe I'll finish it up. So if you like it and want more, say something._

_Your typical author's note take 2: I know a couple years ago, Marvel Team-Up ran a serial named 'The Legion of Losers' from issues 15 to 18, something like that. This group included Speedball, Darkhawk, Sleepwalker, Terror Inc., and a few others. This isn't them. There was an earlier group called the Legion of Losers that showed up in a couple issues of 'The Spectacular Spider-Man' in the 90s. This is a retelling of their origin. I even jigged around with their personalities a bit. Consider this an alternate reality version of Marvel's characters. Just to clear up any confusion._

_Your typical author's note take 3: At this point, I probably don't have to mention that I don't own the characters. Marvel does. On with the story..._

* * *

_A sunny Manhattan day, Mulberry Street._

It was a beautiful Friday, even by the most pessimistic Manhattanner's opinion. The sun shone with a warm, inviting glow that cleansed the entire city with a serene, undisturbed peace. If one strolled into the park, one could smell the cool breeze emanating from the river, could see people walking their dogs or inline skating or happily lapping at melting ice cream. It indeed was calm, dreamy, possibly even serene.

The First National Bank seemed that way, too. Although the bank tellers longed to be in the sun, they felt the warmth soothe their skin through the open windows. The air inside the bank was no less quiet and peaceful. Only the dull echo of a rubber stamp and the occasional quick conversation randomly broke the silence.

Then he appeared. Moving through the revolving door, his steps bouncing on the heels of his feet, he whistled a short tune. In one hand, he held a gun, a loaded Magnum primer he'd gotten from an underground connection. His dotted, black-and-white costume reminded himself of a fire department dog—what were they? Dalmatians?—and his identity was concealed from all.

The Spot quickly stepped into the middle of the bank. He raised the Magnum into the air and fired! A single shot exploded, stabbing his ears with hot, intense fury. He cringed and squint his eyes, and thought he'd lost his hearing until he heard a shrill scream. _That hurt._

He covered his left ear with his unarmed hand—ouch!—and performed a quick, panoramic scan, pointing his gun as he did. Only one security guard, and he wasn't ready. The Spot fiercely thrust his Magnum toward the guard. One woman fainted while a man tried to duck behind a counter.

"You, on the ground! Everyone else, sit down and shut up! You all know what I want, so I want all bank tellers away from their desks and on the ground except you!" He indicated one horrified teller with a hand. The teller froze. The other four tellers scrambled out from behind their desks and joined the crowd on the ground, huddling in one corner of the room.

The Spot approached the teller and quickly barked, "All right. Put all the money in the bag. I want nothing but small bills from all your... tills." He shook his head. _Rhyming. Yeah, that'll instill fear. I really should script these things._

The simple rhyme caused the bank teller's terror to crack a small, quirky smile. "Will that be paper or plastic?"

"No laughing! Stop laughing at me! Just do it!"

"Would you like the gold in the safe, too?" she asked, a look of fear casting over her face again.

The Spot checked his watch. "No. I have a lunch date in half an hour and I still need to change. So we'd better hurry this up. Get that money in there. Please and thank you."

The clerk yanked the till open, her quivering hands moving unevenly. It clanged open, the shattering sound of coins shaking against each other pronouncing it. She grabbed a fistful of fifty-dollar bills and a large cotton bag, and spilled the bills into it.

The door swung open! "Freeze!" The fuzz was here? Already? The Spot looked over to the door and—

—a man in a bear suit slammed through it gracelessly! His small tail almost caught in the door as the door revolved. In his rush, his huge foot hit a potted tree and he tripped, sending himself and the tree barreling forward. Dirt and dark water cascaded onto the smooth marble floor as he skidded to a full stop.

He raised himself onto his clawed feet and looked around. "I said, 'Freeze'!" he screamed again, his brown suit now stained with flecks of dirt and mud. "_Freeze! Freeze! Freeze!_" he screamed, his eyes shut tightly, his pudgy face wrinkled at their sockets. One of his grizzly teeth—from a facemask that only fit around his head instead of being worn over his face properly—threatened to puncture his eyebrow.

The Spot turned to him, noticing that he held no weapon. He clenched his fists, but unless that bear suit held something, this guy was unarmed. "What do you think you're doing?" the Spot asked.

The bear opened his eyes and looked around. He saw the mass of people huddled in one corner, then the security guard face planted against the cold, marble floor, then the Spot himself, the Spot's gun still pointed at the teary-eyed clerk.

"Uh," he lowered his fists. "Uhm..." He looked around stupidly, again at the crowd cringing in the corner, then the security guard, then the clerk and the Spot. The clerk, at this point, was trying hard to stifle a laugh that could very well get her killed out of insolence. Then the bear raised his clutched hands and shut his eyes. "_Put all the money in a bag now and don't screw around! Now! Freeze! Now! Do it!_"

The Spot forgot about the clerk and approached the bear. "You haven't done this much, have you?"

The bear looked over to him. "Of course I have."

"You're an idiot!" The Spot reached him and slammed the barrel of his gun against the man's fur-coated brown costume, a huge, black stain marking the stomach. "Didn't you check the Web site? _I've_ got this bank covered! I signed it out weeks ago!"

"The Web... site? There's a Web site?" He blinked.

The Spot stared at him through his black-splotched eyes. A moment went by. "Forget it," he said, then made a move to the clerk when he saw the intermittent red-blue-red-blue alternating reflection of lights, a sight all too familiar to him. "Oh, for Pete's sake," he whispered. He turned around. The muffled screeching of tires! The police had arrived two squad cars! "You led them right to me, you ignoramus!" He approached the front door windows, watching three—no, four—officers take cover behind their open doors, guns clicking and pointing.

"What's an ignoramus?" the bear asked.

The Spot looked at him. Silence. Ten, fifteen seconds of it. Then, "Here." He jammed his gun into the bear man's chest. "Hold this. Please."

The bear took it, his face glazed with an expressionless stare. The Spot walked toward the back entrance of the bank behind the teller's lounge, the one he doubted the police covered. Or at least the Web site said that its being covered was unlikely. When he cased the place, the back looked hidden. It served as a great escape route. If not, he could teleport out anyway. He turned around and strolled toward the back entrance.

"Where are you going?" the bear asked.

"Home." As he passed the security guard lying on the floor, he said, "He's all yours," thumbing the bear man behind his back.

The Spot exited by a green door with peeling paint and rusting corners. The door possessed no knob, only to open from inside. A hollow clatter resounded as the dying door's single dent snapped backward. As he slammed it open, he could hear the bear waddle up behind him. Obviously, even the security guard was in too much shock to do anything. Probably laughing right now.

The Spot walked out into what looked like a fenced backalley. The sun made the Dumpster resting against the wall stink of rancid, rotten fruit, flies flickering around in a quiet swarm. Trees adorned the other side of the wooden, splintery and unpainted fence, while behind him merely rested the brick wall of the bank... and that impossibly annoying bear man.

"Hey!" the bear said. "Wait up!"

"Look!" The Spot snapped and turned, pointing a slender, spotted finger at the bear's Adam's apple. The man would look positively ridiculous to the Spot if he hadn't just cheated him out of a few million dollars. He still wielded the Spot's gun, and looked incredibly hot in the summer sun underneath his furry costume. "I don't need you following me and bringing the cops right to me, okay? You screwed me over once already today! What are you, some kind of lame superhero? Anyway, it doesn't matter. As sure as my name's Jonathan Ohnn, the next time I even _smell_ you screwing up one of my heists, I'll kill you!" He looked down at the bear man's hand. "And give me my gun!" he finished, snatching the loosely held weapon from the bear man's paw. He turned around and began walking away. He could have teleported, but figured he could run without giving away too many surprises to onlookers.

"You're name's Jonathan Ohnn?" the bear asked. The Spot stopped... and with feelings of utter regret and tingling, nightmarish, gut-twisting angst, realized what he'd just said to this moron. He shut his eyes and put a hand to his face.

"Is that what's called 'blackmail material'?" the bear added innocently.

_The next day. _

Martin Blank reached the street curb and looked left, then right for oncoming traffic. The traffic light was red, but this was New York. It probably didn't hurt to look when crossing the sidewalk, either. Those cabbies could be very intrusive.

Then again, maybe he should step out into traffic. At least things wouldn't be so same anymore, so utterly same. No, better not. Moments like this struck him periodically, but the feeling would pass; it always did.

Everything always did.

Martin Blank crossed the street and shivered in the drenching rain, each drop pelting off his faded green rain hat with the sound of a thudding plop while others beat a constant rhythm on any exposed surfaces. He hated the rain, always had. He didn't really even care for his rain slicker, but put it on in passing. What did he care if he got a cold... or pneumonia? He sighed inwardly, thinking how great an interruption from the regularity of his live a cold would be.

The regularity of life. It sapped his bones of energy, left him drained of life and thought. Hopefully that regularity would soon unravel, considering the mysterious and somewhat nasal voice that beckoned him to the Daily Grind diner, the one that insisted vehemently that they meet today. Not tomorrow, not even Friday. Today. Not much he could do about that, but he'd been oddly curious since that conversation to find out who had called him. At least it gave him an opportunity to dodge the creditors that hounded him. But then, if not for the creditors, there'd be no excitement in his life at all.

He hadn't seen the man—it was a phone conversation—so the man had given him a vague description. Said he had a deal to make. Nowadays, who didn't? This deal had better be something special, although considering his life, a tiny voice inside Martin hounded him at how same this proposition would become. So utterly, undeniably same, the same same that withered his feelings to nothing more than dreary self-pity.

At least the rain was a break in the monotony he felt every single solitary day. The same thing: Wake up, eat breakfast, shave, and appease the creditors. Next day, wake up, eat breakfast…. Then he would haul his oversized butt into the unemployment lines. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. And just like tomorrow. He was sickened by it.

He entered the small diner, noting the curious mixture of meat and bread scents wafting around him. A little different from the oatmeal and raisins he scraped together every single day at the exact same minute of his morning. But oatmeal and raisins was the only meal he could afford.

He waddled toward the nearest stool in front of the bar and plopped himself onto it, feeling the wet shoosh squeeze from his pants and run down the seat. He looked around at the other patrons as they stared down at his buttocks audibly dripping water onto the floor around the stool.

Well, the first impression was always supposed to be the most important. Now his idiocy would be ingrained in this guy's mind forever, whoever he was. Not that it mattered: What would change?

He unenergetically accepted the laminated menu offered by a black woman in a stained white apron, and glanced at the salads and soups. He had to lose weight, so no burgers for him today. Besides, they were too expensive.

He interrupted his perusal to scan the room, searching for the man whose description he'd been given: about six feet tall wearing a brown raincoat with the hat dipped over his eyes, black goulashes, thinning. He would be eating chicken noodle soup, seated at a table, not at the bar.

Seven customers seated at tables. All eating chicken noodle soup. All with brown raincoats and hats tipped over their eyes.

He sighed. Great. Unless he wanted to crawl around on all fours to scour their goulashes, he wasn't going anywhere.

"Can I take your order, sir?" a voice spoke into his left ear, and he jerked up, knocking over a saltshaker as he did.

"Oh, uhm…" He set the menu down and righted the shaker. Glancing at the menu, he read the salad section. Chef salad… Caesar salad… ranch salad. Blech. "I'll, uhm, take the… hamburger."

"Sure thing, hon," the waitress responded and took the menu. He squeezed his eyes shut. _D'oh!_ He wasn't going to lose weight or save money that way. And after checking out the soup dripping from the spoon of the patron sitting next to him, he was starting to wonder if his burger would be served mooing with a clanging cowbell attached to it. Should he milk the burger before eating it?

Someone cleared his throat, and Martin looked over and to the right, down at a table where a man indicated himself by tipping his hat and plucking at the rim between his forefingers. Martin's heart leapt. This was the man that had called him! Fine. _Let's get this over with so I can get back to regular mundane me._ 'Same-ity', as he referred to it. Not like this was going to change his life.

He looked up at his waitress who had just returned from the back room. "Excuse me, miss. I'll take my order over here where this gentleman is sitting." He thought about the burger and a knot of guilt rubbed his heart. Then he added, "And can I have the bacon removed, please?" _Keep my waistline from bursting._ He looked down at its gluttony and sighed.

He slid off his stool almost literally, the rain-slicked fabric of his pant seat sloshing under him again. The driving sound of the rain returned to him, making it seem like the hailstorm of demons that had attacked around Halloween had returned. He sighed again, reminiscing. At least _that_ day had been different, if not bloody. They were cleaning the streets for weeks after that. Citizens were forbidden from leaving home, especially children for fear of twisting their young minds with the ghastly sights left behind.

He languidly moved toward the padded pleather seat across from the man at the table and sat down. The man took another mouthful of chicken soup, slurping it up loudly. Martin cringed at the sound as a tingle tap-danced up his spine.

Martin almost wanted to check the man's footwear, but hesitated. Finally, he ducked down, reaching the tabletop with his face before he heard the man clear his throat again.

"Checking my shoes?" the man said. Shocked, Martin brought his head up, knocking it against the underside of the table! The napkin holder and some cutlery clanged as he did. He rubbed it and squeezed his eyes shut, carefully moving his head out from underneath. He looked up at the man, but still couldn't see a clear shot of his face since the long rain hat overshadowed all but his unshaven chin. "I assure you I'm your man, Mister Blank."

"You're not thin," Martin said, looking over the man's form hidden underneath the raincoat.

"And you'll probably need a Tylenol after this," the other man remarked. He took another slurping sip of his soup, a wad of chicken floating into his lips and interrupting the sizzling glug. The slurp sent vibrations up Martin's body right into his teeth. He cringed, sat back with tensed muscles. Not that Martin should be critical: At least this guy's meal was most likely dead.

The waitress appeared to his left at the edge of the table, setting a lukewarm plate down in front of Martin. "Your burger, sir. Bacon removed."

Martin was about to ask for ketchup for the French fries on the side, but she vanished quickly, leaving him feeling like a dork with his mouth gaping open and his arm raised. He set his arm down and closed his mouth. Oh well. It was better than the regular oatmeal he had for lunch. And dinner.

"Trying to lose weight?" the other man said, his voice still sounding nasal with breaths that sipped the air.

"As if it's any of your business, but I am," Martin replied, and looked down at the folds in his stomach squeezing together. He noticed the grease dripping out of the sides of the burger's meat patty. Another knot told him he should have had the salad. Construction of a third chin would commence tonight. The guilt was still a nice replacement for the usual boredom of the rest of his days.

"If you're going to continue to eat burgers like that, you'll have to join a gym, too." He took another repugnant slurp.

"Look, what have you called me here for? And would you stop slurping? Are you an eight-year-old underneath that raincoat?"

The man stopped silently and set the spoon back down in the cold filth that passed for chicken soup. "Sorry," he whispered. "But it sure beats my Cheerios phobia."

"You have a phobia of Cheerios?" Martin asked, one eyebrow lowered.

"Don't ask."

"Don't tell."

"Don't worry."

"What do you want?" Martin breathed audibly. He wanted to get out. This mystery man wouldn't be able to solve his problems. Nothing would. Except for maybe a razorblade.

"You've fallen on hard times, haven't you?"

"Well…" Martin stammered. "Yeah, but.… What does that—"

"I know. I've watched you. Beaten by Spider-Man repeatedly. Now your life has been reduced to a boring, unchanging schedule and creditors asking when you'll pay them back."

"Look, I'm not interested in spending more time in jail for being beaten up by Spider-Man." Martin got up and grabbed his burger plate. He knew it: This wouldn't change his life. Nothing ever did.

"Sit down," the other man said with a raised voice. "This isn't about Spider-Man."

Martin looked around at the patrons who had turned to look at them. They all turned back to their food and continued eating when he glanced around. He returned to his seat and sighed as he replaced his plate. He was cold. He wished they'd increase the heat in this place. He bit into his hamburger and felt the grease squeeze out into his palate. He could almost feel his belt pop loose and that third chin rolling out ahead of schedule.

"Who are you?" he asked through a mouthful of wadded burger and bun, pushing the contents aside with his tongue. Cold. He checked under the bun as he paused chewing and wondered if he really would find that cowbell. He set the bun back on the patty and looked up at the man whose raincoat still shrouded his face.

"Don't worry about that yet. I have a proposition for you. You've fallen on hard times. You can't pay rent, had your phone almost disconnected, have some debts running uh—uh-uh-uh—" He stopped, and Martin wondered what was going on underneath that shroud. And then—"_ACHOO!_"

The man sent a snot rainfall onto Martin's plate. Martin stared at his food, and then pushed it away. "Thanks." Great. He couldn't even eat his burger. Back to good old oatmeal when he got home. "Need a sneeze guard for this table?"

"Sorry about that. Been fighting a cold and this rain doesn't help. Anyway, I have an answer for you." And he leaned closer, motioning for Martin to do the same.

_This man better not kiss me._ Martin looked left to the other patrons, and then leaned forward.

"How would you like to help me in a little 'project'?" he said with a hushed whisper. Martin could hardly understand what he was saying when he spoke normally. With this whisper, he had to play the voice back in his head before he could ungarble it.

Martin stared at him, trying to make the details out on his face, but the only thing that was visible was still his speckled chin and now a portion of his lower lip. "Project? Are you building a boxcar racer in your garage?"

"No…. Well, maybe later." The man paused, and his hood turned to survey the patrons at the bar. He spoke even quieter, now his volume no more than a semi-whisper. "A heist."

"Don't forget to pay the bills," Martin replied, this time getting up and swinging around, leaving his plate unattended on the table.

He exited, the clanging door shutting behind him as he stepped into the shelter of an overhanging roof, hiking his raincoat up over his shoulders. The door crashed open again, this time with so much force that it struck the brick wall to which it was hinged. It clanged shut and Martin turned around to see the man who had invited him there.

"Hey, hey! Hear me out at least!"

"No! I don't need that kind of stuff in my life. I'm trying the straight deal now. As I said, I don't need Spider-Man carting me off to jail again." He nodded negatively. And his heart dropped as he remembered what his new life was all about: schedule and routine. Lots and lots of routine. He sighed, and his heart dropped farther. "Goodbye, Mister Whoever-You-Are."

"Hey!" the man said as Martin turned around, then lifted the obtrusive, overhanging hood and revealed his face. Martin stopped, not because he wanted to but because he was stupefied by what had been revealed. The man didn't just reveal a face; he revealed a whole getup! Two kangaroo ears flopped over his head, weighed down by the heavy, moistened air. His brown, furry costume pressed tightly around the fat, unshaven face, with orange metal peeking out at the shoulders.

"Who are you?" Martin asked.

"The Kangaroo. I grabbed the old junk off some old has-been Spider-Man villain and souped it up. Now I'm ready for action. And I need someone's help."

"You need my help. Why me?"

"I'm down on my luck, too. Listen, I need this money. I _need_ this money!" He looked around and quieted his voice as he watched a couple pass by on the other side of the street with an umbrella to protect their heads. Somewhere in the distance, a car's tires sluiced through a rain puddle. "I can't get anyone else. You think Venom would help me out? Or the Rhino? I'm a nobody! They don't talk to nobodies."

"So you're saying I'm a nobody?"

"No-no-no-no-no. Listen, Martin—"

"I'm not Martin to you."

"—Mr. Blank, you used to be the Gibbon. Spider-Man trashed you a couple of times. But you've gone straight. But I got a fullproof plan. And you need to get these debt collectors off your doorstep. Look, it's just a robbery. We'll only steal from the bank. No one gets hurt. We won't even take from the people—in fact, we'll do it at night. And banks have millions coming in every day, anyway!"

Martin thought for a second, almost pushed this guy off the street curb. He was trying to leave that life behind. _Far_ behind. But if he didn't pay the collectors soon, he'd be brought to the court with a thirty thousand dollar charge on his head. He almost barfed at the thought of adding court fees onto that total. And his life had been a complete bomb since going straight.

"Look, it'll be easy. I've been scoping out this one bank. Their security hasn't even been back since the whole demon scare a few months back. I betcha the funeral homes made a killing after that, eh? Get it? Killing?"

Martin's face crumbled into a rude sneer. "You're sick."

"Okay, okay. So I'm not Mister Social. Would ya help me?"

No, he couldn't. He absolutely couldn't. It was unfathomable. What if he was caught? It was ludicrous!

But… then what? Back to oatmeal. Back to schedule and unemployment lines. Back to half-bit jobs. Back to the system that would always beat him down, that never gave him a chance, that never cared one way or another what happened to him.

Back to that.

"I'm in," he replied.

The Kangaroo's eyes grew monstrously, and a smile sprouted on his face. "Great! We'll be unstoppable!"

The door crashed open madly and the black waitress leapt out, wielding a shaking spatula in her right hand. "I'll show you unstoppable, you dine-an'-dashers. Get in there and pay for your food!" She started beating the Kangaroo with the spatula's flat end, and he put his hands over his head.

"Hey! Okay, okay!" the Kangaroo pleaded.

_The Spot's Mid-Manhattan apartment. Midnight. _

The Spot squinted as he scoured the computer monitor, searching for the tidbits of information that most interested him. The extreme contrast between the completely darkened room and the bright, white background of the Web page displayed on the monitor almost gave him a flashing headache, but he liked the deep glow of the monitor in the dark.

"What's this a picture of?" the Grizzly said, strutting around behind him and disturbing who knows what out of his collection of trinkets. The Spot turned and saw him staring intently into a picture frame, doubtlessly too moronic to realize he probably couldn't see anything in the extreme darkness anyway. He didn't know who it was, anyway; the picture had come with the frame. He figured the company name in the corner would have been a giveaway.

"Don't touch anything!" the Spot snapped, swiveling around and grabbing the picture frame from the Grizzly's clumsy grip. He set the picture facedown on the computer desk, right beside the monitor. "Just stop touching things and sit down." The Grizzly retrieved a swivel chair from the corner of the room as the Spot muttered, "Probably screw that up, anyway."

"What's this?" Grizzly asked as he peered into the computer monitor.

"This is a Web site," the Spot replied, taking the mouse in one hand and maneuvering the pointer over the next bank name on his list: Hitherton National Bank, not far from his apartment. "It's that Web site that lists all the banks that are available to rob."

"There's a Web site?" the Grizzly asked and leaned forward with genuine curiosity.

The Spot looked over to him, his heart stabbing deeply with dripping frustration. He gave the Grizzly a penetrative stare, and the Grizzly looked back to him. "Are y—Are you serious? We went over this yesterday."

"Right," the Grizzly responded, and turned to the monitor again. "What's this bank?" he said, touching the monitor with his costumed finger.

"_That_—" The Spot shouted as he grabbed the Grizzly's finger and yanked it away from the monitor. "—is an inconsequential banner ad for hemorrhoid cream, which has absolutely nothing to do with our task here. And never—_ever_—touch my monitor, you contraceptive mishap."

The Spot looked to the sign-in field on the monitor, his heart steaming with more irritation as he realized some schedule hog named the Kangaroo had checked it out for the next night. This same Kangaroo had checked out all local banks in the area! What was with this Kangaroo? Did he think he could rob all these banks at one time?

Heck, with what was available in today's villain marketplace, maybe he could. Or maybe he was a self-duplicator, but the name didn't speak of that. It _could_ be a red herring, but who knows? No contact information, no home address, and upon clicking on his name, the subsequent profile page told him that the Kangaroo had no previous signouts. Starting big, are we?

"Can we rob this one?" the Grizzly asked.

"No, simian," the Spot replied. "It's already been checked out. And we want to do our job tomorrow. But some king-sized, brainless wad of bone and flesh has signed every single bank in the Manhattan area out for tomorrow night!"

"So what do we do?"

The Spot sighed. Finally, the idiot had a good question. He ran a hand over his costumed head, feeling the padding of his hair underneath. "I don't know," he replied.

_The next night. _

The Gibbon had taken a couple of hours finding his costume the night before. It had been stuffed away in his downtown storage area for months. He figured it would have been something he'd remember stuffing away in a box, but the months had dwindled his memory. It wasn't something he figured on using again. But he had taken the two hours locating it while the Kangaroo—in all his 'infinite' wisdom—chose a suitable bank (this after the Gibbon had found he hadn't been casing a bank for weeks after all).

And here they were at one in the morning approaching a branch of the Washington Mutual bank. Great. His heart pumped juicy blood through him, but he was otherwise calm. He had done things like this before, but didn't want to return to it. And now here he was, with someone he'd met less than two full days before, either getting very rich or getting very jailed.

He considered backing out—each step brought him closer to spouting those easy yet difficult words, "I'm out"—but didn't. He remembered what backing out would mean. Routine and schedule. Settling boredom. His legs became heavier and unenergetic with that thought.

"Okay, here we are," the Kangaroo spoke as they approached a well-lit, one-floor building with a huge blue-on-white sign depicting the bank's logo. "Washington Mutual, Inc." Both he and the Kangaroo craned their necks high to see the bank's logo.

The Gibbon reached into his costume's pocket and fished out his gun, a small revolver that the Kangaroo had given him earlier. "How'd you come up with this bank?" he asked.

"I like their mortgage rates," the Kangaroo replied.

"Good, good," the Gibbon replied. "Nice to know I'm about to pull a caper with a guy who's financially responsible. How do we get in? I don't exactly want to shoot through the windows."

"Easy," the Kangaroo replied as he reached into the pouch on his front. He rummaged around until he found something, then his hand emerged with a magnetic-strip card in it. He slid the card into a reading slot close to the door handle. A click, and the door had unlocked.

The Gibbon saw the card, a blue-and-white series of words reading Washington Mutual on it. "This is your bank? You're gonna rob your own bank?"

"This is my home branch," the Kangaroo replied as he grabbed the door handle and pulled.

The Gibbon's eyes widened. "_Your home bra—_" His head darted around quickly, searching for onlookers. He lowered his voice. "Your home branch? You're gonna rob your home branch? What are you, an imbecile?"

"No, I'm no imbecile! As a matter of fact, I chose this bank because it saves the time of casing it."

"_Casing it?_ You mean you didn't case it?"

"Why? I already know the layout."

The Gibbon's blood bubbled, and his limbs suddenly found energy. He grabbed the Kangaroo's collar and yanked him closer. The Kangaroo let go the door handle and it slid shut again. "There's more to casing a joint than knowing the layout. You have to figure out guard rotations. You have to know where they keep the money at night if you're going in at night. You have to—" He paused to ponder the right words. "—be somewhat knowledgeable about the bank!"

"I get it! I get it!" the Kangaroo replied as he shook himself loose of the Gibbon's grip. "Today's bank robber is proactive. Duly noted for next time. But I didn't have time to case the joint. A proper casing could have taken a couple of weeks. I need this money now. I mean... they just repoed my car."

"_Is that why we took the bus here?_" The Gibbon lunged for the Kangaroo again, but the Kangaroo sidestepped and backed up. The Gibbon caught air. He lunged again and grabbed the Kangaroo by the collar, this time shaking his hands violently as he spoke. "Do you have any clue what I'm putting on the line here? Do you have—"

"Gentlemen!" A commanding voice boomed from their side, just a few feet into the bank's parking lot, and they both looked over. The Gibbon's heart tightened, threatening to explode all over the inside of his rib cage as that one word echoed all over the inside of his head like a reverberating tuning fork. His legs were suddenly shaky, but then he caught sight of who had called out that foreboding single word.

Two men stood, both costumed. One wore a white costume with black, random splotches dominating it. The other wore the stained costume of a bear, a mask resting around his head purposelessly.

"I believe you're robbing our bank," the white-and-black one responded.

**Next issue: The battle for the kings of ineptitude rages! Two hamfisted duos beat the snot out of each other for the honour of robbing a bank!**


	2. Territorial Dispute

**The Spot—inept body teleporter! The Kangaroo—inventive jerk!  
The Gibbon—overweight bumbler! The Grizzly—uneducated halfwit!  
Together, they form the least qualified, most mismatched team of never-weres!  
They are...**

**The Legion of Losers!**

**Issue #1: Stupid Is as Stupid Does**

_Your typical author's note: I wrote this a few years ago for a fanfiction group site (Alternate Marvel) and got a couple issues in before I lost free time and couldn't continue the project. I planned it to be a four-issue series, so this is half finished. If I get enough feedback saying I should, maybe I'll finish it up. So if you like it and want more, say something._

_Your typical author's note take 2: I know a couple years ago, Marvel Team-Up ran a serial named 'The Legion of Losers' from issues 15 to 18, something like that. This group included Speedball, Darkhawk, Sleepwalker, Terror Inc., and a few others. This isn't them. There was an earlier group called the Legion of Losers that showed up in a couple issues of 'The Spectacular Spider-Man' in the 90s. This is a retelling of their origin. I even jigged around with their personalities a bit. Consider this an alternate reality version of Marvel's characters. Just to clear up any confusion._

_Your typical author's note take 3: At this point, I probably don't have to mention that I don't own the characters. Marvel does. On with the story..._

* * *

_In front of the Washington Mutual bank. _

"What do you mean 'your bank'?" the Kangaroo asked, and that made the Gibbon groan, placing a hand over his head as if to wipe a dream from his sleep. No, this was real. His heart coughed as the Kangaroo continued, "We were here first. We signed this bank out, and we're gonna rob it." He crouched as if ready to pounce. The Gibbon had never seen the hydraulic boot lift the Kangaroo kept mentioning, but assumed it would probably smoke and explode at first attempt.

The bear man—the Gibbon recognized him as the Grizzly, another old-time Spider-Man pincushion—looked up, raising a finger with a broad smile over his goofy face. "Hey, I have an idea!"

"You finally accepted the fact that you need a bib?" the white-and-black splotched man asked in reply.

"No, Spot, but thanks for the tip. I mean, we could rob this bank together! Like, team up!"

The Kangaroo looked at the white-and-black man—the Grizzly had called him the Spot—standing tall before him. "Huh? Team up? Who is this nimrod?"

"He's actually an ignoramus," the Spot responded.

The Kangaroo turned to the Grizzly, and the Gibbon stepped lightly to beside him. "There's not enough to share between the four of us."

"Actually," the Gibbon started, "there's plenty o—"

"Besides, we had this bank signed out yesterday!"

"You're an idiot!" the Spot responded with callous anger. "You had _all_ the banks signed out yesterday!"

"So how'd you find us here?"

"Easy," he responded. "I checked out your account. I figured you'd go for your home branch."

"What?" the Gibbon boomed. "Is it common practice for you idiots to rob your home branches?"

The Spot looked at the Gibbon. The Gibbon could see his eyebrows blink underneath his mask, once, then twice as he paused. "What's the problem with that?"

"I thought _I_ was as low as it could get," the Gibbon huffed and threw his arms in the air as he clenched his eyes shut tightly and spun around. "You're all idiots! No wonder Spider-Man kept beating you."

"Spider-Man never beat me," the Kangaroo replied weakly.

The Spot turned to the Grizzly. "I'll teleport in and unlock the bank from the inside. You wait here."

"Hey, did you not hear us?" the Kangaroo said, stepping forward with both fists wavering in small circles. Until now, the Gibbon thought that movement was only for cartoons; now he knew: The Kangaroo was to be taken as seriously as Elmer Fudd. But the Kangaroo continued. He shook noticeably and opened one fist to point at himself. "This bank is ours. _Ours_."

The Spot sighed, visible irritation revealed through the full-facial mask he wore. A man dressed as a kangaroo was about to fight a man dressed as a Dalmatian, with a grizzly bear and a monkey sitting at the sidelines. If only the Rhino and the Scorpion were here, there'd be an entire zoo full of Spider-Man villains. At least the Rhino and the Scorpion would give them class.

Oh well, it was better than waiting in unemployment lines. The thought of unemployment lines made his muscles relax to the point that he almost released the contents of his bladder.

"All right, all right," the Spot responded, waving both hands in the air. "Fine. We can fight it over."

"S'fine by me," the Kangaroo responded. He raised his fists again, and the Spot did likewise. The Kangaroo crouched—was he readying his hydraulic boots?—and tightened those less-than-effective fists into white-knuckle balls. He turned back, looked at the Gibbon and asked, "Are you in this or what?"

The Gibbon snapped to attention, his face suddenly becoming alive instead of dry with a permanent scowl. All thought of unemployment lines dissipated, and his muscles clenched tightly. "Huh? You serious? Let them take this bank. We'll get the next one."

The Kangaroo's back erected. He turned, shaking his head in an obvious arrogant annoyance. "That's not the point. This is a matter of principle."

"Look, I think we threw out principles around the time we started discussing robbing a bank, and then moreso when two grown men decided they would pummel each other into gelatin over who gets to do it," the Gibbon replied. "No way am I going to justify these buffoons by getting into a fistfight over rights to rob a bank. There's a perfectly good ING Direct down the street—"

"Are you in this or what?" the Kangaroo replied.

The Gibbon's scowl returned. He looked at the Grizzly, then at the Spot, at the utter stupidity of the entire situation. But was this how he was going to start things? Was this the precedent by which he would escape from the sameness of life, the utter despicable, boring sameness given his every second? His heart dropped. No. He shut his eyes firmly, the dread of tomorrow returning in clutching, cold claws. He had to make a change, point his life in the right direction. And if pointing his life in the right direction started with a juvenile fistfight between four grown men, then so be it. "I'm in."

"Good," the Kangaroo replied and turned back to the Spot.

The Gibbon rolled his head around his shoulders, first back, then forth, then side to side. He performed a series of light jumps, followed by taking the exaggerated stance of a runner preparing to break out of the starter gate. Then he stretched his arms back, attempting to touch his fingertips together though he knew it was impossible.

"_What's this?_" the Spot clamored, pointing an open Dalmatian hand at the Gibbon, who looked up with all the disrespect and hatred that Satan held for human life rolled into one short moment. "What are you doing?"

"I'm stretching. Go bark at a fire." The Gibbon relieved his arm-stretching to push his shoulder blades back as he bent at the waist and attempted to touch his toes. He didn't make it far; his gut posed a great detriment in even locating his toes, much less touching them.

"You're... You're stretching?" The Spot smacked his hands on his forehead and pivoted in a half-circle. "I—I can't believe you're stretching!"

"You serious?" the Kangaroo bellowed as he turned and looked at the Gibbon with nothing but shock and disbelief in his wide, disgusted eyes.

The Gibbon stood. "I stretch before every fight. What else would you have me do? No sense in pulling a muscle just because I didn't stretch." He stood, breaking from his stretcher's stance to point at the pair. "Look, if you don't stretch before you fight, you might as well write off the rest of your week, bank robbery or no bank robbery."

"I can't believe this!" The Spot turned back, then looked to beside the Gibbon where the Grizzly stood. "And what do you think _you're_ doing?"

"It sounds like a good idea," the Grizzly replied. The Gibbon looked at the Grizzly, watching as the Grizzly mimicked his moves by bending as far down as he could, then standing up and pushing his arms backward against his shoulder blades. If it was entirely possible, the Gibbon thought the Grizzly was even more inflexible than he. The Gibbon continued by kicking high and backward, catching his foot in his hand and forcing his leg up. He broke wind as he did. Oops.

"Oh, fine," the Spot replied, waving his hands as if worshiping gods he probably didn't believe in. "Why don't we all stretch before the big fistfight then, how about that?"

"Stupidest idea I ever heard of," the Kangaroo muttered as both he and the Spot assumed straddling stances.

For what seemed like more than a few minutes, the four would-be bank robbers each took his own pattern of exaggerated stances and form-jutting poses, grunting and sometimes breathing erratically to force their limbs into contorted postures probably not met in decades, for the Gibbon ever since embarrassing eleventh-grade gym classes.

He'd hated the word 'wedgie' ever since.

"Okay, are we done?" the Spot asked, shaking his head floppily on his neck and then jumping like an inexperienced boxer before the ring of the bell. "We're done, then?"

"Now we fight," the Kangaroo replied. "Good." He took his ready stance, again those balled fists raising to attention as if threatening more than the stray dog watching intently from across the street. Even so, the Gibbon thought the Spot was more likely to hump a wall than that quivering mass of undernourished flesh with floppy ears that whimpered as its head pointed downward.

The Kangaroo and the Spot stepped rightward in a slow circle that meant no more than the dance of two grown men ready to roll around on the dirt like highschoolers. Their scuffed shoes stepped simultaneously, both reaching a half-circle and still facing each other.

"I like applesauce," the Grizzly interjected.

"Shut up," the Kangaroo and the Spot snapped without turning from each other, both still scowling with lowered bodies and heavy breathing. At least _this_ was a nice lapse from the identical, unbreakable pattern of the Gibbon's life: two grown men in a fistfight in front of a bank.

Suddenly a shadowed figure leapt from a line of hedges surrounding the bank's parking lot. The figure, dressed in a dreadful purple-and-white mockery of fashion, smacked onto the pavement with booted feet that almost slipped from underneath him. He sprinted toward the bank, seemingly ignorant of the four costumed men—and the Gibbon used the word 'men' loosely—almost fighting mere feet away.

"By my enhanced strength, I shatter through this windowpane!" the runner exclaimed before smacking into a large window among a series that lined the street-facing side of the bank. The window gave way to a reverberating tremor, no more than if a bird had struck it, before the purple-and-white man hit the ground, his back against the sidewalk.

"What was _he_ trying to do?" the Gibbon asked as the crackpot groaned, his weakened struggle to right himself done without result. He approached the downed crackpot, now noticing a small white pistol held loosely in his right hand with fingers almost uncurled around its trigger and butt. The Gibbon heard the footsteps of the others following behind him, and soon all four peered down at the man who fluttered in and out of consciousness.

The Gibbon recognized him. "It's the Looter."

"The Looter?" the Spot asked, looking over at him with one eyebrow curved underneath his mask.

"The Looter, yeah. Spider-Man fought him a few times."

"Oh, great, another Spider-Man bad guy." The Spot smacked his forehead. "And vying for this bank. In case this Looter wakes up, can you beat him?"

"Spider-Man compared me to him once."

"What'd he say?"

"He said I could never beat the Looter."

"And Spider-Man's a good judge of skill," the Grizzly added.

"Go back to thinking about your applesauce," the Spot snapped, then turned back to the Gibbon. "Maybe we can drag him off to the side and let him wake up tomorrow next to a robbed bank."

"Wai-wai-wait," the Kangaroo interjected, holding a palm up and looking at the Spot. "Suddenly we're all helping each other out? I don't think so. Seems to me, I was just about to clean your clo—"

The howl of sirens rose from the nothingness of the silence, a sound ripping apart the wind that until now had reminded the Gibbon of tape hiss on an old cassette. "Hey, wait," the Gibbon said, suddenly alert, perking his ears and putting a hand up. "Wait."

The night stillness did nothing to calm the cutting whoop of the approaching sirens now seeming more like a gale of cacophony than what had risen from nothing. Oh, no. The sirens were nearing.

Painful shockwaves stabbed the Gibbon's heart when he saw the red and blue circling lights, then the screeching tires that slammed onto the curbside in front of the bank only a few feet away from them. The Spot and the Kangaroo turned quickly and lowered their fists in time to watch a squad car rend the bank's lawn into dirty patches. The doors slammed open and two uniformed men spilled out.

The Kangaroo wore a panicky expression while the Spot looked as if he'd seen this sight a thousand times. The Grizzly looked enraptured at the thought of applesauce. The Gibbon felt a vice grip remorselessly squeezing his heart to mush, his legs buckling at the thought of trading jail for his life of monotony.

"_Free-ee-ee_-ee—" The cop stabbing the air with his gun faltered, a confused visage replacing the maddened expression he had before. He tilted his head to one side and looked to his partner, speaking unheard words before stepping around the car door he had used for cover. His partner still threatened them with his pistol, but the cop now approaching them seemed sure-stepped.

"And you gentlemen are...?" he asked. He possessed a broad-boned face with built shoulders capping muscular arms and a wide frame, ending in feet that looked like they could kick through a rhinoceros. He holstered his gun as the Spot stepped around the fallen Looter to speak to the officer, a finger pointed for threatening emphasis.

Oh, this was not good. The Gibbon didn't know much about the Spot, but knew that he and cops probably socialized as well as sterodic pitbulls. From the first word the Spot spoke, the Gibbon sensed his angry intention. "We're—"

"Officer," the Gibbon interrupted, circling around the Spot and shoving him backward. "Officer, we're just—we're—we're—" What could he say? What the &# could he say? Suddenly the sameness in his life, the utter lack of excitement that had stone-framed his entire day into a rock-solid nightmare seemed almost bearable. No way could he face jail. No! He wouldn't go back! He was no good at selling his body for protection or holding the soap. What would he do? Run! He'd run and let these guys take the rap and never look back and—

"Did you guys just take out the Looter?" the cop asked, looking up at them with suspicious eyes. The Gibbon looked at the Spot, then at the Kangaroo, then at the officer. "You just saved the bank from being robbed?"

"I guess, uhm, I guess we did," the Gibbon stammered. With no word of a lie. Almost.

"Well, congratulations," the officer replied, a slight smile crawling across his lips as he looked back at his partner who seemed more relaxed than when they'd first arrived. He turned back to the Gibbon and took his costumed paw to shake it, then turned to the Spot who stepped back arrogantly.

"Wait," the Kangaroo started and stepped forward. He quizzically moved his head leftward though his eyes remained focused on the cop. "Do you even know who we are?" he asked.

"No," the officer replied. "Never seen you before. But thanks for helping us out. It's nice to see up-and-coming men looking after the common folk instead of hitting the high-profile threats like Doctor Doom and the Green Goblin. I have to get back to my car, call this in and have a paddywagon pick this guy up. But, thanks." He turned and walked toward his sedan.

"What just happened?" the Spot asked, looking at the others. The Gibbon just nodded in disbelief, letting a silent moment drop.

"So, anyway, about applesauce—"

_The Spot's apartment._

"Our bank robbery was foiled by a guy calling himself the Looter of all things?" the Spot asked, circling his couch for probably the twelfth time. "What exactly did he loot today?"

The Kangaroo sat on one of two rather uncomfortable sofa seats, peering down at a picture frame holding what was obviously the picture it had come with, a five-by-eight inch portrait of a happily married couple still in their marriage digs. The more the Kangaroo knew this Spot, the more he thought the arrogant terd was no better than a slug. He looked around the room, everywhere his eyes stopped making him more nauseous than before. The pale green wallpaper that peeled at the corners, the torn and outdated furniture, the lack of cleanliness... everything in the room made it spin hopelessly in his nausea as if he hung immediately outside the eye of a tornado. He looked at the Spot, derision marking his face. This guy and this guy alone was responsible for botching his and the Gibbon's hit on that bank. If not for him, they could have been far from the bank by the time the Looter had smacked into that window like a drunken hummingbird. He threw the picture frame aside.

"Yeah, and the cops think we captured him, think we protected the bank," the Gibbon replied, seated close to the Kangaroo on the other rather uncomfortable sofa seat, a mismatched brown and red pair. "They think we're the good guys. And you know what? It felt good to be the good guy for once."

"Speak for yourself," the Spot replied. He chopped the air with one hand. "Ain't no way I'd feel right being the good guy. There's a whole world of money out there to be stolen, and I'm the guy who's going to do it. I hate—_despise_—the idea of being the good guy." The Spot looked genuine in his hatred.

"No, really, how many times has Spider-Man beat up on you guys? The bad guy thing _never_ worked. For any of us."

"Hey, Spidey never beat up on me. How many times I gotta tell you that?"

The Gibbon looked brimming with new passion, restored life. He breathed faster now, or at least that's what the blubber looked like to the Kangaroo when it shook. He stood, almost launching himself at the Spot with a newfound enthusiasm that was shriveled and dead when he had met this man in the diner not long ago. The Gibbon grabbed the Spot by the shoulders. "Think about it. People would root for _us_ for once! We wouldn't be the idiots everyone spat on, the losers no one would miss if we vanished into thin air." He paused. "We'd be the losers everyone cheered for." He turned to the Kangaroo. "We'd lose on the right side of the law."

The Spot shook out of the Gibbon's hold. He backed away, smacking the Gibbon's hands out of the air with a disgusted look. "I _ain't_ gonna be the good guy! I lived that life for far too long. I _hated_ it. Never worked for me." He turned away, walking toward the fridge. "Get outta my apartment."

"But..." The Gibbon paused for a second, a sly smile creeping over his face. The Kangaroo had never seen such an inspirationally devilish smile on a man. "But think of the money we could make."

The Spot stopped. It took a moment for any other movement to register, for any other sign of life to animate the otherwise motionless tableau with one foot almost half-stepping in the air. Then he moved, turned, looked over to the Gibbon. His eyes flickered to the Grizzly and the Kangaroo, then back at the Gibbon.

"That's right," the Gibbon continued, stepping toward the Spot. "Think of the endorsements we could make, the television deals we'd sign, the fans that would pay thirty dollars for an autographed t-shirt of your spotty face on it. Wouldn't you love to have your forty-dollar name scrawled illegibly under the armpit of someone's hoodie?"

The Spot looked like he was smiling. He still wore his mask, but the suggestion of a curling mouth played across it. Dollar signs almost bulged out of the slot machine wheels the Spot's eyes had become. He was taken. "Just to have my name scrawled illegibly under the armpit of someone's hoodie," he repeated, those dollars signs ringing the bells of riches in his head so loudly that the Kangaroo swore he actually heard them. Soon nickels would spit out of his mouth. Oh, well, at least he'd be able to yank down the Spot's arm.

"That's right," the Gibbon replied, then looked back at the Kangaroo, then at the Grizzly. He disregarded the Grizzly, who was peering down at his thumbnails, probably fascinated by their symmetry. All it would take to win the Grizzly was to feed him more applesauce. "What do you say? We'd be the losers that New Yorkers could root for. A team of them, or a... a... _legion_."

The good guys. Being the losers that New York could root for. Meh. It beat watching what was on cable.

He hated reality TV anyway.

**Next issue: Probably more of the same bumbling nonsense but with a few new jokes. And probably someone scratching his nuts. Is your curiosity piqued yet?**


End file.
